


This Is The Apocalypse

by Astarloa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Catatonia, Depression, Gen, Hospitalisation, Hurt Dean Winchester, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 07:09:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astarloa/pseuds/Astarloa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam visits an unresponsive Dean in hospital on Thanksgiving night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is The Apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Lonely (Autumn-themed) prompt by anon at Hoodie_time on LJ.

Catatonia.

New Latin, from the German _katatonie_ , from the Greek _katatonos_ , stretching tight.

Research is important.

Major depressive disorder, mortality rate 3.4 percent, interactive cause model, substance abuse, catatonic depression, mute, exhibits purposelessness, selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, minimum of six to eight weeks for remission from treatment onset, relapse, co-morbidity, highest recovery rates in the first three months. 

Twelve weeks.

_“You say that you found him like this yesterday. Has you brother suffered any trauma recently, Mr Gunn?”_

91.31 days. 

_"Dean’s slightly underweight, Mr Gunn. Have you noticed any change in his eating habits?"_

2,191.43 hours.

_“Has he ever received treatment for depression, Mr Gunn?”_

131,48719 minutes. 

_“Does Dean have a history of substance abuse, Mr Gunn?”_

7,889,231.49 seconds.

_“Don’t you worry, Mr Gunn. We’ll take good care of him.”_

For all the prophecies and angelic foretelling, Sam knows the truth. Lucifer broke free of the cage years ago and took up residence in the detail. His new home is a stained, cardboard box Sam’s filled with printouts and studies, articles and pamphlets. Library books that’ve been kidnapped with no prospect of a ransom.

Welcome to the apocalypse. 

Sometime during the fourth week Sam pulled the motel bible from the bedside table and replaced it with a dog-eared copy of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders IV. It’s out of date but the best he could find. The spine is cracked, pages in danger of falling out.

That’s the outcome of being stretched tight.

You break into pieces and fall, so says the Gospel of Humpty Dumpty. 

He set the bible alight in a rust-stained sink.

Salted it first for good measure.

Watched as it burnt whilst humming ‘Daydream Believer’ under his breath. The sound echoed tunelessly against the bathroom tiles. He wondered if that’s what the inside of Dean’s head was like now. Synapses hiding in the corner, desperate to escape discordant sound adrift from meaning.

In the sixth week the doctors suggested electroconvulsive therapy. Sam stared at them in silence, before turning to his brother with a spluttered laugh. “Hey, why don’t we just catch a Rawhead and let it loose in the hospital? Right Dean? Be just like old times. Man, c’mon, get your lazy ass out of bed! We’ve gotta go find ourselves a monster!” 

He laughed ‘til his stomach muscles screamed in protest and air was sucked from the room, world fading away into darkness. The last thing he saw was Dean’s white, unresponsive face staring up from the bed.

Blink. 

Blink. 

Blink.

Now it’s week ten.

There’s been some improvement.

Dean sort of chews if Sam forces a spoonful of rubbery jello between his lips, even if he’s misplaced the physical memory of swallowing and most of it ends up in spit-sticky strands down his chin. After the last episode the nurses know not to bring them anything red. It’s still not enough, though, and the clear plastic tube taped to his brother’s nose is a perpetual reminder.

Sometimes the corner of Dean’s mouth will twitch, the way it used to when he was pissed off but trying to hide it. 

He cries a lot.

A stream of silent tears that fall faster than Sam can wipe them away.

“Hey man, happy Thanksgiving. You hungry? Mashed sweet potato tonight. Looks pretty good, huh? I brought you a piece of pie, for after. You’ve gotta eat this first, though, ‘cause that Supermodel look you’re going for? Not working.” 

Sam forks up some of the orange mush and presses it against Dean’s mouth.

Tries to smile.

He’s never felt less thankful in his life.


End file.
